


What Partners Are For

by MDJensen



Category: Alcatraz (TV)
Genre: Doc whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I got the warm fuzzies writing it, i really love this show, nobody's going to read this but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: After being attacked (and imprisoned) by the Ames brothers, Doc's hurting in more ways than one. Rebecca looks after him.
Kudos: 12





	What Partners Are For

Months into the whole—venture?—and Rebecca still doesn’t quite understand the ferry.

The last tourist boat leaves by 10, at the latest. And that’s only on days when the night tour runs, which is only a few times a week. Yet whenever she and Doc need to cross back to the mainland, there’s a small boat waiting, and one of Hauser’s staff to operate it.

It’s perplexing. But she’s grateful, especially on a night like tonight; it’s well past 11 when she and Doc finally make their way down to the pier.

The ferry’s waiting.

Doc’s quiet on the ride; it’s understandable, of course, but a little disappointing too. This is usually their time to depressurize. To talk about things besides time-traveling criminals. If their time in the Batcave and out on the streets has made them partners, it’s the ferry rides that have made them friends.

But Doc’s beaten and shaken, and maybe a little traumatized. And tonight he just sits and stares out at the waves, unspeaking, nearly unblinking.

Finally they dock. It’s late on a weeknight, but Pier 33 is never really quiet; and after the night’s events, the feeling of sudden reintegration is more striking than usual.

“At least it stopped raining,” Rebecca mutters. “You ready to head home—Doc?”

The man doesn’t respond; he’s too busy staggering to the nearest trashcan and folding over it dizzily. Rebecca winces. She’d given him a quick once-over as she taped up his forehead, but this wouldn’t be the first time that the symptoms took a little while to arrive.

Rebecca goes and stands behind him. She takes a moment to ensure that all of his hair is safely behind his shoulders; then she rubs his back, because puking sucks. And puking in public, with a split lip to boot? That sucks a _lot_. “Just let it happen, man,” she soothes. “It’s no big deal.”

Doc nods, or maybe just shudders. And then his body lurches, beneath Rebecca’s touch—and he vomits, loudly, into the trashcan.

It happens again. And again. And a few more times. Rebecca keeps a hand on his back until it’s over.

“Sorry,” Doc rasps, once he can speak. He forces himself half-upright; digs a tissue out of his pocket and clumsily wipes puke and blood from his mouth. “’m sorry. Jeez.”

“It’s all right. You know this means the hospital, though, right?”

“ _Ngh_. Just— lil’ seasick.”

“Mm-hm. You know I’ve been on a boat with you like a hundred times, right? You don’t get seasick.”

“Sometimes.”

“Right. How’s your head?”

Doc sighs. “Splitting,” he admits, in a grumble. And she knows that he knows that he’s been found out.

“Yeah.” Rebecca offers an easy smile. “You’ve got a concussion, man. It doesn’t seem bad, but you know if it were me, you’d drag my ass to the ER, stat.”

“I know.”

“I know it sucks. You just wanna go home. But we’re not gonna play around with concussions, okay?”

“’kay,” Doc mutters. For a moment he seems to collect himself; then he peels away from the trash can, letting Rebecca steer him by one elbow.

She’s parked nearby (perk of being a cop) and there’s a hospital only a few blocks away (perk of living in a major city). So it’s only a few minutes later that she’s guiding Doc into the ER. And because it’s a slow night—and maybe also because Rebecca lets her badge be seen—it’s only a few minutes more before Doc’s name is called, and they’re led back to an exam room.

The nurse passes Doc a gown, and draws the curtains as she leaves. He stares at it, and for a moment Rebecca thinks he’s going to need help; but he just mutters a request for her to turn around. When she looks back a minute later he’s changed, clothes in a ball on a nearby chair.

Another nurse comes by, and begins a familiar exam; Doc gives his own name, and Rebecca’s, and the president’s. He follows the penlight. And dutifully answers a slew of questions: yes he lost consciousness, but only for a minute; yes he vomited, but only once; no he doesn’t think he’s going to be sick again. The nurse gives him an emesis bag anyway.

Once she’s gone, Doc glares at it blearily. In the bright clinical lighting, Rebecca can see remnants of dried blood in his hair and eyebrow, and inside one nostril; she’d tried to clean him up, when she’d dressed his head, but apparently she’d missed some spots.

“You can be mad at me for making you come,” Rebecca offers. She’s perched on one of the visitor’s chairs, the one without Doc’s crumpled-up laundry.

“Nah. Just mad a’ the guy who freakin’—slammed my head into a concrete floor. An’—the other guy, who slammed m’head against the window. Lotta people slammin’ my head tonight.”

Rebecca smiles, relieved when Doc smiles back.

“How’s the headache?”

“Bad. Lights hurt. Noises hurt.”

“You seem pretty with-it, though.”

“Mm. I’d say—woozy but not—foggy? Does that make sense?”

“I think your advanced vocabulary is going over my head,” Rebecca replies, making him smile again.

“Um. The glass—that I’m lookin’ through—is warped, but not frosted?”

“How warped?”

Doc scowls. “Forget I said anything.”

“I just want to make sure—”

“Diego Soto, Rebecca Madsen, Barack Obama.” He rubs fitfully at his forehead. “It’s March fifth, unless it’s March sixth by now. I’d tell you what I was doing when I hit my head, but it would be super awkward if the doctor walked in while I was talking. Because if they heard the truth they’d probably think schizophrenia before they’d think concussion.”

He says all of this so _miserably_ that Rebecca reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“You okay?”

“You’re the one who said I wasn’t.”

“I meant, like. Besides that.”

But Doc doesn’t have time to answer, because the doctor does indeed walk in mid-conversation. They fall silent, and Doc submits to examination. He answers now-familiar questions, tracks the doctor’s finger, pushes against her hands. Then he gets out of bed, walks a straight line.

“How’d I do?” he asks, sinking back to the bed.

“Your coordination and balance look good.” She frowns; then puts her chart down and prods gently at Doc’s forehead with gloved hands. “Can you tell me more about how the head trauma occurred?”

“I fell,” Doc replies, at the exact same time that Rebecca answers, “he was assaulted.”

The doctor pulls back, considers them both.

“I was assaulted,” Doc mutters. “I didn’t forget that part. Just sort of thought we weren’t _going there_.”

“In case she needed to know,” Rebecca hisses, returning the stink-eye her partner is giving her. “In case it’s relevant.”

“Mr. Soto, are the police aware of the incident?”

“I’m the police,” Rebecca replies. “We’re aware, we’ve got it covered. My main concern right now is to make sure that Diego’s all right.”

“Mm. All right.” The doctor returns to examining Doc’s wound. “Whatever else, I’d like to see your forehead sutured. I’m going to touch your lip now—okay. I don’t see a need for it here. Now, you absolutely have a concussion—”

“Please don’t tell me I need, like, scans,” Doc mutters, wilting visibly. “I’m, um. Really claustrophobic.”

“Well. I’m not pleased you lost consciousness,” the doctor replies (and Rebecca frowns because—really? They’re not pleased about it either!) “But your response times are good and there’s no sign of memory loss. I’m comfortable releasing you. But only if you can have somebody with you at all times for the next forty-eight hours. Is there somebody who can do that?”

Rebecca doesn’t hesitate. “That’d be me.”

“I thought you were the police.”

“I’m also his friend,” she replies, and Doc flashes a wobbly smile.

“All right.” The doctor puts her clipboard down. “I’ll give you this all on a paper, too, but here’s the highlights: if any of his current symptoms get worse, you bring him back. If he runs a fever, becomes weak or disoriented, or has a seizure, you bring him back.”

“Got it.”

“About sleeping. When he falls asleep tonight, you’re going to have to wake him every hour or two. It’s a myth that the sleeping itself is dangerous, but he needs to be reevaluated frequently, even overnight. If you can wake him up easily and his symptoms aren’t worse, let him go back to sleep. If it’s hard to wake him up, or if he shows any of the other symptoms I mentioned—”

“I bring him back,” Rebecca finishes. She glances over at Doc, who gives a tiny shrug.

“Exactly. But I think there’s a good chance that you won’t have to. Okay— Mr. Soto? Your job for the next week is to relax as much as possible. No work, no exercise. Limit screen time, including TV. You can read if it doesn’t make your head worse, but it might. Basically a lot of sleeping and being boring, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do either of you have any questions for me?”

They don’t. So the doctor gives a few more instructions, tells them somebody will come to stitch Doc’s forehead soon, and leaves.

“How are you feeling?” Rebecca asks, once they’re alone again.

“Mm. Is _gross_ a fair answer?”

“Gross?”

“Sticky. Bloody. Achy. Queasy. So, gross,” Doc repeats, lying back with a wince. “Inside and outside. I wanna shower and sleep forever.”

“You can sleep forever, in one-to-two-hour intervals.”

Doc smiles, without meeting her eyes, and out of nowhere Rebecca wants to hold his hand again. This time she resists.

A new nurse comes by then, and cleans and stitches Doc’s forehead; he gives Rebecca photocopies of aftercare instructions for the wound and the concussion, and tells them that Doc can change back into his clothes. (He does so, though he doesn’t bother with his tie.) Then somebody new brings with discharge papers, and they’re free to go.

Finally they get to the car, and Rebecca heads for Doc’s apartment. And it occurs to her for the first time that she didn’t really check with him before inviting herself over for the next two days—not that she was really given a choice, but still.

“Hey,” she opens, softly.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry in advance for invading your privacy.”

“’m sorry you have to,” Doc mutters. “I’m sure you don’t have to actually stay forty-eight hours—”

“Uh-huh. Okay, that’s an argument we’re gonna save for tomorrow,” Rebecca replies, and Doc seems to concede this.

At Doc’s apartment—though she thought he was kidding—Doc showers. He’s in there for a solid twenty minutes before he emerges, smelling like soap, bleeding freshly from the lip but looking much cleaner overall.

He joins Rebecca in the kitchen. She’s helped herself to some soup, and offers to make heat some up for Doc as well; but he just scowls and pours himself a glass of water. Then he leans back against the counter, holding a napkin to his lip.

“You want some Tylenol?”

“I want Advil,” Doc grumbles. “But I know you’re gonna tell me I can’t have Advil.”

“You can’t have Advil,” Rebecca agrees. “Where’s your meds?”

Doc points her to the right cabinet, where Rebecca pulls out the appropriate bottle; then she goes to the freezer and finds a bag of frozen peas, which she wraps in paper towels. When she turns back, Doc’s got his eyes closed.

“Pills,” she narrates, pressing four into his free hand. Doc opens his eyes just enough to take them. “Good. Ice pack; it’ll help.”

Rather than accept this, Doc tips forward; Rebecca understands the invitation, and lays the pack on the back of his neck. He shivers.

“Sorry.”

“’s okay.”

“Okay.” She adjusts the pack, but doesn’t take her hand away; her fingers are cold and her arm’s getting tired, but she hardly cares. “So. Any reason you’re not in bed yet?”

“Not really?” Doc sighs. “I’m just, like—uncomfortable? I dunno if lying down’ll make me more uncomfortable.” He laughs a little. “Sorry. So whiny.”

“You have a concussion, man. You’re allowed to be whiny. But c’mon—the doctor said rest.”

“I know,” Doc murmurs, very softly.

For another moment he stays still: leaned against the counter, napkin pressed to his lip, bent slightly at the waist to allow Rebecca access to his neck. Then, in one motion, he pulls himself upright. Rebecca lets her hand fall away, and brings the ice pack and the glass of water as she trails him down the hall.

At his bedroom door she passes them over, earning her half a smile.

“See you in an hour, I guess,” Doc mutters, and disappears inside.

It’s just past three. Rebecca sets an alarm for 4:15, though she doubts she’ll sleep, at least not this round. First of all, she needs a shower as well.

She takes a long one too, then changes into workout pants and a t-shirt from the go-bag she brought in from the car. By then there’s only half an hour left before her alarm. So she picks at some of Doc’s snacks and wastes time on her phone until the noise of it jolts her back to reality.

She silences it. Makes her way down the hall to the bedroom, and lets herself in with the tiniest twinge of guilt.

“Doc?”

No response. So she goes to his side and tries again, tapping gently on his arm for good measure.

This time he comes awake, pulling a slow, shaky breath as he does so.

“Sorry.”

“’sokay,” he whispers.

“Do you remember why I’m waking you up?”

“C’ncussion.” He coughs a little. “Some criminals from the sixties bashed my head in. Twice.”

“Unfortunately and surprisingly accurate. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit. C’n I go back to sleep?”

“What’s your name?”

“Diego Soto.”

“And me?”

“Becca Madsen.”

She’s honestly not sure if he means to call her _Becca_ , or if his lips just miss the first sound. Either way she doesn’t mind.

“Who’s the president?”

Doc huffs. “Was gonna say Michelle, but you might think I wasn’t kidding. Can I please sleep now?”

“Okay. ‘night, Doc.”

He doesn’t respond. Rebecca goes out to the living room, sets an alarm for 5:15; this time, she sleeps.

There’s a merciful lack of dreams. She’s tired enough that no perceptible time passes while she’s out; also tired enough that it’s a bit of a chore to rouse herself when this new alarm sounds.

Still, it’s got to be done.

She lets herself into Doc’s room for the second time, and pokes him awake; this time, he ignores the first touch. But he groans as she tries again. And the third time he drags himself dizzily upright.

“You okay?”

“ _Ngh_. Nauseous.”

“Okay. You think you might get sick?”

“Dunno,” Doc mutters, shifting uneasily on the bed. In the dim light Rebecca fumbles until she finds a little wastebasket by Doc’s desk, and brings it over as quickly as she can.

“C’ld dump it out. Jus’ papers.”

At Doc’s direction, Rebecca does so; then places the now-empty receptacle in the dip of his crossed legs. Doc shivers, and hugs it to his chest.

“Becca?”

This time, he definitely means to say it this way.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, but—c’n you leave, please?”

“I’m pretty sure this is exactly what I’m here for,” Rebecca replies, softly.

“Disagree.” He sniffles. “Disagree _so hard_.”

“Doc—”

“D’you want me to name the president? I will name _every_ president in chronological order. Just, leave— _leave me the fuck alone_.”

It’s not his words that change her mind, so much as the audible lump in his throat.

So she leaves. Goes back to the living room and, to her surprise, sleeps.

When she wakes again, the sun’s rising. It should be—it’s 6:15—but it’s somehow unexpected, after a night like this. It feels like the darkness should drag on forever. But it isn’t; so she gets up too, stretching and popping joints as she makes her way back to Doc’s room.

She gives a cursory knock, and enters. To her surprise, Doc’s upright in bed, staring out the window with a tight, unhappy look on his face; he smiles as she enters, but it somehow doesn’t have much effect on his expression.

“You’re awake.”

“Mm,” Doc hums. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s breathing too quickly.

“How you doing?”

“Well, I never puked. So that’s nice.”

“We definitely prefer not puking.”

“I fell back asleep, but—I woke up a few minutes ago.”

Rebecca’s pretty sure she’s still invited in; so she closes the door gently and takes a few more steps forward.

“You want me to close your blinds?”

“Nah. I can still sleep if it’s light.”

“But is it bothering your head?”

“It’s not the light,” Doc insists, sitting up a little straighter. “I had a—weird dream. Woke me up. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Um. Yeah, actually. I keep some spare blankets in the top of my closet—could you just grab me one?”

“You have the chills?” she prompts, doing as he asked.

“Mm. ‘m freezing.”

“You gotta let me see if you have a fever. It’s one of our look-for’s.”

“Rebecca, I’m okay,” Doc insists. “ _Seriously_. I’m just— it just freaked me out.”

“Let me feel your forehead or you can’t have the blanket,” Rebecca bargains. Doc just laughs softly and submits to examination, staying still while Rebecca lays the back of her hand on his forehead, opposite from the stitches. His temp feels normal. But he closes his eyes at her touch, and manages a slow, steady breath; so she doesn’t pull away yet. Instead she tests his cheeks, and the side of his neck.

“No fever,” she agrees, when she finally pulls away. “I’ll allow it.”

“Gracious and merciful,” Doc mutters. She’d picked the top blanket on the pile, a careworn comforter that looks grey in the spare light, but really could be any number of colors. Doc accepts it with unsteady hands, and wraps it around his shoulders.

“Can I sit?” Rebecca prompts. He nods, so she goes around to the empty side of the bed and crawls in beside him. “Hey.”

“Hey. Um. Sorry I yelled at you last time.”

“Oh, hey, man—that wasn’t even slightly yelling. Seriously.”

“Well, I’m sorry I was rude.”

“If it makes you feel better, I absolutely forgive you.”

“Thanks.” He gathers the blanket a little tighter, probably without realizing. “I dunno if it’s from the concussion, or the not-enough-sleep, but—I definitely feel kind of emotional? Like, definitely more than usual?”

“Yeah? That’s okay. That can definitely be a concussion thing.”

“Earlier I was just sort of pissed off. But now I’m, like. I dunno.”

“D’you wanna talk about it?”

He blinks. His breathing’s slowing down, but it’s still not where she’d like it.

“Earlier tonight,” he begins. “Or, yesterday. Um. They locked me in solitary. And I’m—”

“Claustrophobic,” she supplies, when he can’t seem to get the word out.

“Yeah. But I did okay? I kept it together, ‘cause I had to. But just now, I was dreaming about it— and— it was haunted? Like, the ghosts of all the other guys they’d kept in that cell were in there— and it sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But it— it— freaked me out.”

“It would have freaked me out too,” Rebecca promises, quietly.

“They were mad. The ones who died were mad, and the ones who came back were even madder. Mad at me for writing about them. Mad at me—”

“Doc—”

“Kit Nelson was there.”

Rebecca’s breath catches. “Kit Nelson’s dead.”

“I told you, it was his ghost.” Doc snorts, a little of the tension ebbing. “I don’t even believe in ghosts.”

Rebecca slings an arm around his shoulders; it’s muted by the thickness of the blanket, but still she can feel him hitching with too-shallow inhales.

“Listen, man. I know you’re shaken up. You have every reason to be. But you gotta slow your breathing down.”

“Easier said than done,” Doc huffs.

“I know. I know that. Just try, okay?”

“I know. I know.” He takes one breath in, comically large; but instead of letting out slowly, he coughs, and curses.

His face is buried now. Rebecca cups her hand over the back of his head. “Can I be inside the blankets with you?” Beneath her fingers, he nods.

There’s a moment of shuffle as they arrange it, but soon she’s cocooned inside of the comforter with him, arms pressing warmly together. Their legs press, too, under the other blankets. She rubs little circles on his back as he presses against his chest and takes measured breaths through his nose.

Out the window, the world is gradually brightening.

“C’you pass me those tissues?” Doc asks, eventually. “I’m not crying,” he adds. “My lip’s bleeding again.”

Rebecca abandons the blanket nest, just for a moment, to reach for the nightstand on her side of the bed and grab the requested item.

“You could cry, if you wanted,” she offers, passing it over. “Might help.”

“Don’t think it’d help my head,” Doc murmurs. He takes a few tissues to press to his lip, leaving the box askew between their laps. He’s breathing better now, and not holding the blankets so tightly.

“You should sleep some more.”

“I know. I will.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Doc tips his head backwards, slightly, and takes a deep breath. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

“Then, yeah.” He glances over, and their eyes meet for the first time hours. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I think we let ourselves sleep two hours this time?”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” Doc groans, sliding down under the covers. “That prob’ly shouldn’t sound luxurious, but it _does_.”

Rebecca feels her nose wrinkle as she burrows deeper as well; she wonders if she should hold him, or let him hold her, but the blankets have bunched and created a small barrier between them. She lets it stand. It feels like enough that she lays her hand overtop of it, fingertips brushing her bedmate’s arm.

She sleeps; and well, this time.

They wake together when the alarm sounds. Doc sighs, and coughs lightly; Rebecca reaches drowsily outward, and squashes the barrier between them.

It’s fully bright in the room now. She can see the healthy flush of Doc’s cheeks; can see that the grey-appearing blanket is, in fact, a mossy green.

“Morning,” she rasps, and clears her throat.

“Morning.”

“Your bed’s nice.”

Doc chuckles. “That’s it? No interrogation?”

“Your call,” Rebecca replies, smiling into the covers. “Name?”

“Diego Soto.”

“Birthday?”

“April 28, 1973.”

“Favorite color?”

A light frown creases Doc’s forehead. “I don’t have one. Do you still have one?”

“Uh, yes. But now that you implied that I’m immature, you don’t get to know what it is.”

“Y’re not immature,” Doc mumbles. “‘m jus’ old.”

“Mm. You’ll be forty in a few months,” Rebecca muses, rolling onto her back. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“I didn’t actually need the reminder, but thanks.”

“How’s your head?”

“Eh. Still bad.”

“How ‘bout your stomach?”

“Iffy. But ‘m prob’ly also hungry, at this point.”

“Okay. You want eggs and toast?”

“God. Maybe I _am_ just hungry, ‘cause that sounds amazing.”

“Mm. Anything else?”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee’s not gonna help your stomach,” Rebecca teases, pushing herself upright.

“Okay. But not having coffee’s gonna make my head worse.”

“Huh?”

“Caffeine withdrawal,” Doc admits, staying reclined. “God _damn_ , am I still tired.”

“We didn’t go to bed until three,” Rebecca reminds him. “Might seem like we slept in, but we really didn’t.”

“Mm.”

“Also, you have a concussion.”

“Right. How could I forget.” Doc hauls himself to a sit as well, and rubs languidly at his eyes.

“How’re you, in terms of the, like. Non-concussion stuff.”

“Like the nightmare, hyperventilate-y thing? Fine. Better.”

“Good.”

“Thanks, by the way.” Doc smiles, almost shyly. “For keeping me calm.”

“Of course, man.”

“I used to have nightmares all the time,” he admits, dragging a hand through his hair now. “Started after I was abducted, but it went on—god. Ten, maybe fifteen years? Almost every night. You’d think you’d get used to ‘em. But I never did. It’s like I started being anxious about being anxious, and that’s just—that’s a cycle.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway,” Doc says; and there’s the sense of something being put away, though not of the box being locked. “You were gonna make me eggs?”

“How do you want ‘em?”

“Unfertilized?” Doc replies, cracking himself up. “That’s not my line. That’s not how that goes. Are you good at not breaking the yolks?”

“Um—”

“Then scrambled.”

Rebecca smiles, and looks over Doc’s face as he smiles back. His lip’s a bit swollen, and on his forehead the skin pulls around the sutures in a way that probably itches. But his eyes are bright now, like they maybe weren’t before.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Rebecca murmurs. “I’m not sure if I said that.”

There’s another quiet laugh. “I think it was implied. But thanks.”

Rebecca just hums in reply; and pulls herself out of bed before she can say any more.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if anybody's actually reading this, and if you are, if you remember... but in this episode, Rebecca thanks Doc for saving her life. Then she has to leave, but he sort of mumbles as she walks away, "what are partners for?" And it's the cutest thing :) That partially inspired this, and it inspired the title.


End file.
